


On a Clock

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Femdom, Friends With Benefits, Pussy Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:33:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21839767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: "If you're not naked and in my room by the time I get to my bed? I dig into my toybox, and you go home. Understood?"
Relationships: Zoe Morgan/John Reese
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28
Collections: Flash Fuck: Round One (2019)





	On a Clock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GlassesOfJustice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassesOfJustice/gifts).



"I have to be at a gala in two hours," Zoe says, greeting John in a plush burgundy bathrobe, not even waiting for him to step inside before walking toward the bedroom and reaching for her belt. "So if you're not naked and in my room by the time I get to my bed?" He locks the door, the click loud and resounding, and she lets the robe fall from her shoulders and pool on the floor. "I dig into my toybox, and you go home."

She casts a glance at him over her shoulder, her lush hair framing her face. "Understood?"

Mouth gone dry and gut gone tight, John swallows hard, and he nods and goes for his buttons. "Yes," he says, and her lips curl in an approving smile. His dick, agonizingly hard since he answered her call, twitches. She never calls him for anything other than this. If she needs their help—rare, but it's happened—she calls Harold. But if she needs this...

"Good." Zoe's smile widens. "Get moving, John."

He does, not letting himself get distracted by her beauty, not by the slow sway of her hips, nor the play of her muscles under skin that's tan all over, the movement of her magnificent ass and her long legs, the soft padding of her bare feet on the floor. The sheer confidence of her, the certainty that John will follow, the radiant quality that would have anyone else tripping over their feet. God, she's incredible. John's blood burns, need for her thrumming inside him, and he strips out of his shirt with brisk efficiency, sending only one little white button clattering to the ground. He barely gives that a thought—he can find it later.

By the time Zoe's perched on the edge of her bed, her legs spread wide, her body on display, John's naked, the warm air prickling on the sweat on his skin. His breath catches at the sight of her, and her smile goes sly and filthy. "Impressive," she says, sending a pleased shiver through him. Not even waiting for him to take her in, she gestures toward her cunt. "I think you know where you're wanted. On your knees, hands behind your back. Use your mouth. Nothing else."

John sinks to his knees, easy and fluid, dragged down by the heat pooling in his belly and groin, and he clasps his hands behind his back, locking his fingers together. Another charge of anticipation shudders through him, sparking through his nerves and settling in the throb in his dick, and it's hard to suppress his urge to grin, to move before she tells him to.

"There we go," she says, embracing him with her thighs. "Now, earn your keep, John. Give me a memory to entertain me tonight." In a warning tone, she adds, "And if you come on my rug?"

"I won't come," he says.

"If you do? There will be consequences."

The word "consequences" sends a delicious frisson through him. John tries not to show it. Lips quirking, he says, "Of course."

John buries his face between her thighs, dragging his nose up the seam of her cunt, his mouth, making her shiver. Wetness spreads on his skin, on his nose, his lips, his chin. He inhales the scent of her greedily, the deep, concentrated smell of her eagerness, her need, her—no perfume, no pretense, just Zoe—and the burn in his belly flares brighter. Again, he pushes it mercilessly down, burying his arousal in the pit of his core, his mind going to a slow, quiet place where everything is hot and languid and _her_.

This isn't about him. It's like the place inside he goes to in a firefight, where everything runs on instinct, only better, focused entirely on something that doesn't hurt. He closes his eyes and sinks into this, into the luxurious heat of her damp and musky skin against his mouth and the firm thighs embracing his head and the duty he has here, a sense of peace dampening the fire in his gut. This is where he belongs tonight.

His tongue chases his nose, licking a broad, slow, reverent swipe along hot and dusky skin, tasting salt and Zoe, and Zoe lets out a small, breathy hum. Her skin is so soft here, fragile in a way she isn't. He licks her again, dragging his tongue up over velvety folds, from the end of her cunt to her clit then back down again, exploring the landscape of her familiar body here, the sounds he can drag out of her, the delicious shudders. It's his favorite place in the world: between a partner's legs, touching them, tasting them, his senses surrounded by them.

Then, Zoe feigns a loud, theatrical yawn. "That the best you can do?" she asks. "C'mon. Show me what you've really got."

He looks up at her, eyes meeting hers behind the curtain of her disheveled hair, and says, "Yes, ma'am."

"Smartass," she says, with a fond huff, and she lightly shoves his head down. "Get back to work."

Mapping the shape of her cunt turns to teasing it, the tip of his tongue meandering with maddening lightness over damp, luxurious skin. He slips between her labia, traces her entrance, slides back out again. She curses and grabs a fistful of his hair, starkly painful in a way that goes straight to his dick, and he resists the impulse to grin, channels it into circling her clit, giving her almost enough before moving on.

There's a thin line between enjoyable and frustration, and John prides himself on knowing where it is—especially with Zoe, and it's as much a thrill to him as it is to her. He's learned how to read her, when the tugs on his hair and the bare heels digging into his back and the arches of her hips mean to stop playing and move. So he does. He fucks her with his tongue, worships her with it, breaks up the rhythm of his thrusts into the tight, clenching heat of her with his tongue to her clit, making her breath go more ragged and her thighs start to tremble.

"Much better," she says, her husky voice starting to lose its evenness.

He loses himself in her, in tasting her, in pleasing her with lips and tongue, tracking the way she moves to drag her closer until his mouth is aching and she's thrusting up against his face, hot and needy and wet and close. He pauses to catch his breath and kiss her clit, presses his throbbing lips to the swollen tip, and she lets out a growl that goes even louder when he starts to suck, gentle and steady and determined, grounding himself in the physicality of the act. Zoe says his name like it's something profane, tightens the grip of her fist and her thighs, until all he can hear is the thudding bass beat of his pulse and the press of her damp skin on his ears. Her heels slide on his back, one grinding into a bruise, and the bright shock of small pain hits the coil of lust inside him like a fresh blow, wringing a groan from his throat.

"Too bad we don't have time for more of that," Zoe says, voice raw and excited, barely heard through the clench of her thighs. "Next time?"

John shows his agreement with flicks of his tongue over her clit, and she thrusts up against him, the push of her hips urging him on. It feels good to do this to her, for her, a sense of delight trickling through the arousal in John's blood. Encouraged, he alternates between licking and sucking, finding a new rhythm then switching it up again, until she's squirming and moaning and rocking toward his mouth, chasing more of the sensation. He gives it to her, gladly, cherishing her with the generosity of his mouth, appreciating her with lips and tongue and suction, letting her use him. His dick, leaking and aching, is an afterthought. The sting in his scalp is an afterthought. He is a mouth, and his mouth is hers, he is hers, and he revels in it.

And he _knows_ her. It's one of his favorite parts of an arrangement like this—the intimate knowledge of someone else's body. He can tell when she's almost at the peak, in the rapid tensing of her thighs, the erratic canting of her hips. The way she starts to beg in a way she never does anywhere else, devolving into incoherency.

If they weren't on a clock, John would draw back now, stretch this out, keep her on the edge until she's really cursing his name. Instead, he gives her exactly what she wants now, licks her and sucks her the way he knows she likes until he thrusts his tongue inside her just as she's _there_. With a loud, guttural moan and an arch of her hips, she goes still, muscles trembling, cunt quivering around him as she comes.

Easing her toward and through the aftermath, he gentles his touch, until his lips and tongue are still against her clit as she sags onto the mattress.

"Whew," she says, between panting breaths, a smile in her voice. "Not too bad."

Despite her words, she sounds impressed. John grins up at her, pleased and smug and soaked—he probably looks obscene. It feels good. "Didn't come on your rug, either." Now that he's thinking about it, he feels how close he is, his dick still standing tall and wet against his belly, ready to go off at the slightest touch.

Zoe pushes herself up, and he can see the tremors of exertion in her arms as she gives his erection an appraising look. "So you didn't," she says, then takes hold of his chin. "God, you're a mess. _I'm_ a mess."

She really is—her lips bitten and red and wet, her hair in disarray. She looks stunning.

John gives his lips a slow, deliberate lick, and Zoe gives him a heavy-lidded look through her lashes.

"Wanna help me get cleaned up?" she asks.

A dirty grin spreading across his face at the speed of the elation spreading through his blood, John replies, "Hell yes."


End file.
